


Where is Our Heaven Hiding

by godisthedice



Category: Alleluia! The Devil's Carnival (2015), The Devil's Carnival (2012)
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence, Reference to Non-Human Genitals, Shapeshifted sex, Smut, Unhealthy People Doing Unhealthy Things, Unhealthy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6532252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godisthedice/pseuds/godisthedice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heaven’s naughty little filly has been there a week before she comes to the Twin’s tent. </p>
<p>They all come to his tent, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where is Our Heaven Hiding

**Author's Note:**

> MASSIVE spoilers for Alleluia!, if you haven't seen it I doubt most of this will make sense. I don't know where this came from, I'm judging myself hard, but apparently my Devil's Carnival aesthetic is the Twin fucking everyone with borrowed faces. brb going to hell, at least there'll be great musical numbers there.

Heaven’s naughty little filly has been there a week before she comes to the Twin’s tent. 

They all come to his tent, eventually. From the lowest to the highest, there's always something they want that they can’t have. Some _one_ they want that they can't have. The Twin is the one that hears all their dirty little secrets, knows all their dirty little fantasies. And why not? The Twin keeps to himself, for the most part. As far as they know. What he does when he isn’t wearing his own face is anyone’s guess, and they know it. They trust him enough to put their desires in his hands, but not enough to seek him out to spend more innocent time with him. Who would trust a creature that can steal any face he pleases?

The filly (they're calling her the Painted Doll now) creeps in, all blonde curls and smeared makeup. Lucifer is making her a star, he knows. Good for her. She's got the potential. Had it from the second she cast off her wings and got on her belly in the dirt with the rest of the filth. She might have just been an applicant in Heaven, but in Hell she's going to be a headliner. The Twin has been in the Carnival long enough to spot it. That same curiosity that got her kicked down the elevator shaft is going to take her far, now that she can't go any lower.

He looks up from the gem he's polishing when she steps in, glances her over carefully. She isn't looking at him. Not in the eye. Not in the face. He can't imagine why… _surely_ one of the Author's former best and brightest wouldn’t shy away from the ugliness of his scaled face, his snake’s eyes. She'll get over it. They all do, eventually. Not like she has much room to brag. Her shattered face would make any of her former friends cringe.

“Yessssss?” His sibilant voice slices through the silence, sharp as a whip. She flinches away as if she expects it to slash her skin like one, too.

The Doll doesn't look up, mismatched eyes fixed on the dust. The one on the broken side of her face, he thinks, is prettier. Glowing. Like all the Heaven left in her is centered in that one ring of luminous blue. Her voice is low, harsh. Nothing like when he's heard her sing. She sings like the angel she ought to have been, if she hadn't taken a tumble. “That thing you do. With your face. Can you…”

He knows what she's asking. It's what they all ask. He sees the face that she wants from him. It's one he's worn for her already, one that's all tangled with love and pain. “For assss long assss you need.” 

“Could you…”

He could make her beg for it. Should. It's the only real entertainment he gets between curtain calls, all of them crawling in like they're ashamed of wanting what he can offer. Everyone gets one freebie, though. The little mouse might run away if he makes her ask for it like he ought to.

Besides. It's not every day that the Twin gets to mimic someone like the Agent, God's number one lapdog. 

It's a fluid change, from his own skin to the Agent’s. The angel’s skin is prettier. Classically handsome features. Coiffed dark hair. Perfect as something cast in a plastic mold. “Doll,” he calls her. Even the new voice is achingly beautiful. They'd have sung a beautiful duet, the Agent and the Doll. Shame it would never happen. The Twin did love a good duet. “Come on in. Make yourself comfortable.”

The Doll hesitates a moment more, then comes creeping in. He stands to greet her, borrowed lips curving into a smile as he holds out an arm for her. She folds into him easily, gracefully, her face lifting to his like a flower to the sun. Before his lips brush hers, she whispers, “June.”

The Twin pulls back, looking down at her silently. She licks her painted lips, murmurs, “He'd call me June.”

Getting the details right is important. The Twin leans in, nuzzles his face against hers again, and breathes it into her mouth like a summer breeze. “June.”

She melts.

The kiss starts off gentle, but it turns bruising quickly, the pretty pearls of her teeth cutting into his lower lip. His hands settle at her waist, pull her in close to him. She's slim, all sharp angles. A man could cut himself on her, if he wasn't careful. His thumbs press into the jut of her hipbones. Thin arms wrap around his neck, holding him to her like she's afraid he's going to slip away.

They end up in his chair, her straddling his lap, deceptively strong thighs clasping his. It's quick work, pushing down her corset to expose small, perfect breasts, creamy skin capped by pink rose petal nipples. He thumbs at one, watches it bud into a tight peak before he bends his head to close hot wet mouth and sharp teeth around it. Her cries are staccato. Musical. Even in this she sings. 

She's writhing on his lap, now, head tilted back, long fingers clasping his head. He wonders if she's ever been touched like this before. Did the lapdog let it get this far, or did he stymie her with kisses, too loyal to his master to give her what her body begged for? From the shock in those small noises that escape her, he thinks he knows the answer. It doesn't matter, though, does it? She knew what she was coming here for. She knows what she's asking. It isn't his job to babysit her, to quiz her about whether she's sure.

Her fingers unclench from his hair, her hands drop between them and start fumbling at the fastenings of his pants, clumsy with need and daring. There's no sound in the tent but their harsh breathing, though the normal noise of the Carnival continues outside canvas that's never thick enough to block out the rest of the world. Any privacy here is as much an illusion as the faces he wears, maintained only by the fact that any eavesdroppers have secrets of their own they want to pretend are kept. “Just a moment,” he tells her in another man’s voice, hands settling on hers to slow them. “Easy, June.” There's no hiss to his words, using this voice, but it still sounds as though there ought to be, something about the way his tongue caresses the s that makes you expect it.

She doesn't speak, but she doesn't slow. Between the two of them, they still fumble his cock from the fabric trapping it. She hikes up her skirt, raises herself over him and sinks down. He grips himself at the base of his cock, steadies it, guides himself into her when her hips prove less graceful in this. Her cunt is hot, soaking wet around the blunt head of this borrowed cock, but tight. Too tight. There's a moment of resistance, a small cry of pain. He expects her to stop.

She doesn't.

Her hands are braced on his shoulders, her shins claiming the bare sliver of chair left on either side of his thighs. It's not enough room. She doesn't seem to care, rocking her body clumsily atop his. There's no coordination to this. No skill. Just frenzied coupling, his hands on her hips to guide her as much as she'll let him. He's not certain she even enjoys it, at first, her broken, once pretty face twisted.

“Jussst like that, June. Ssso good.” The voice is the first to fade. It always is. The Twin can hold a face for as long as he likes, but his own voice always creeps back, a layer below the one he's mimicking. The Doll doesn't notice, or doesn't care. At the least, she doesn't stop.

Her cunt relaxes around him, the rocking of her hips becomes more fluid. The pain has passed, he thinks, as she dips her head down for another kiss. He thinks it impassively. He doesn't care about her pain. He doesn't care if she enjoys it at all. Someday, she'll be his sister in this place, but who is she to him now? Just a foolish girl with a hint of salty tears lingering on her lips. Her shoulders shake as she drives herself onto his cock, again and again, a soft hitch of sobs against his lips. 

Then the tears stop. The tears stop, and shaking shoulders still. She tears her lips from his, rears back. It pulls her cunt tighter around him again, the new angle driving him in deeper. He hisses. 

It isn't a surprise when the first slap comes. She hates the man whose face he wears as much as she loves him, now. The Twin was expecting this. She hits him again, and again, open palm against his cheek, her other hand still clutching tight at his shoulder. She slaps him, and he drives up into the twitch of her hips, grunting deep in his throat. She slaps him until her cunt is squeezing around him, a beautiful cry wrung from her lips as she comes on his cock, shatters in her anger. Another thrust up into her and he's there, too, pumping her full of bitter, barren seed.

The silence between them is fragile as she slumps against his chest, once more nothing but the sound of their breathing breaking the air. His cock softens, slips from her cunt in fractions of inches, smeared with semen, her fluids, and a hint of blood. He lets his stolen face begin to fade.

She pulls back, eventually. Looks at his reddened cheek. With a small, sad smile, she leans in to kiss it. It isn't any kind of balm that helps, but he appreciates it all the same. Without another word, she climbs from his lap, pulls up her top and smooths down her skirt. A dribble of come creeps down her inner thigh, past its hem, pearly white. He watches her, face blank, until she walks out of his tent. This time, she doesn't creep. She strides proudly, head up, whatever shame has been driving her vanished.

She won't be coming to his tent again, he thinks. She's found what she was looking for.

The rest of what he's stolen fades, and the Twin tucks himself back into his pants without looking at his reptilian cock, one more proof that he isn't, will never be, human. Except, of course, for what he steals.

With a shrug, he pushes himself back up to the table, gets back to work on his shinies. The show, as they say, must go on, and he's about due for another performance. 

It could have been another hour before the flap of his tent stirs again. It could have been several. It could have been mere minutes. He doesn't keep track, when he's immersed in the jewels that he tempts the sinners with. Apples have nothing on a big, shiny diamond, when it comes to the girls he meets, nowadays. This time, when he looks up, the face is more familiar. No one special. Just another carny. He's a… repeat customer. So to speak. The Twin knows exactly what he wants, but he waits, face twisted into a smirk. Only the first time is free.

“There's a girl… please.”

The Twin pulls the face from his mind. One of the Woe-Maidens, this time. He doesn't know why the man doesn't just ask the girl, himself. Unless it's the thrill of her never knowing he's had her that the carny is after. It doesn't matter. The change flows over him, cock shrinking between his thighs, cunt gaping instead. Soft breasts pillow out under his jacket, rough fabric of his shirt scraping against large, soft nipples. His hair brushes the delicate skin of his neck as the carny steps forward, hunger in his eyes.

They all come to the Twin’s tent, eventually. They never come for him.


End file.
